One Summer

I left, for what could you do?
Fields with crops rotting in the ground and the blue edge beyond the road
was where the lake rose and jinked.
I'll tell you, even the hills were flooded. Then I heard about a neighbour
who couldn't take it anymore
and threw himself into the old mill-race. So sometimes I see myself looking
and I may as well be part of the rain falling and there is no end to it.
Page 107, Poetry Ireland Review Issue 28